Quitting's a Bitch
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: When Dean catches a fifteen-year-old Sam smoking, he's furious. Of course he is. But he's also willing to do whatever it takes to help him kick the habit without Dad finding out, and "whatever it takes" seems to mean keeping Sam full of things that taste a whole lot better than tobacco. WARNING: Contains Weecest, weight gain, stuffing, feeding, feeder!Dean, and chubby!feedee!Sam.


It'd been two days since Dean caught Sam smoking.

When Sam woke up, he felt so bad he was sure, for a second, he had the flu. Again. He'd already had it twice this season, once before Dean realized Dad had forgotten about shots and rushed him down to the free clinic to get stuck and once after, so he knew what it felt like. This was as bad as the first time. His throat was raw, oozing dryness and a metallic taste up the back of his tongue like he'd been swallowing rock salt all night. The sheets bound up around him dug itchy creases into his skin, rubbery with sweat. Pins and needles buzzed in his hands and feet. He wasn't totally sure he wouldn't puke straight into his lap if he sat up.

He risked it anyway. His stomach clenched itself up into his ribcage, but he didn't throw up. He heard somebody moving around out in the kitchen, probably Dean. He and Dad had been out most of the night. As usual, Sam hadn't been able to fall asleep until they got in.

He opened the bedroom door and padded fuzzily out. It was humid, so he got no relief even out from under the covers, sweat gumming his tattered tee and holey sweatpants to his body. Rain pattered on the roof and grease spat in a pan. The smell nearly made Sam gag.

The room was bigger than normal. Three rooms, actually. Kitchen/living room with the couch Dad slept on when he was here, two-bed bedroom, bathroom. They'd been here since January. Dad hadn't said anything about it, but Sam knew it was because of the meltdown he'd had over winter break, could feel it as a prickly little knot between his throat and chest. Both Dad and Dean still referred to that incident as a "bitch fit." Same as all of Sam's incidents.

Dean was standing at the stove, back to Sam. His neck was mottled with fresh bruises just barely starting to purple up, running down his back into his shirt. When he glanced over his shoulder at Sam, half his face was puffed and scraped. He only smiled on the normal side.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," he greeted. "I was just about to come get you up." He looked back down at the stove. "How you feelin'?"

Sam had to untack his tongue from the roof of his mouth before he answered. "Like shit."

"Yep, that's not a surprise." Dean was just way too damn cheerful. "Have a sit. I'm making you breakfast."

Sam groaned. "I don't want it." He pulled out a chair at the table anyway.

"That's too bad." Dean flicked burners off, one after another, and grabbed a plate. "You're getting it anyway. It'll make you feel better." He looked at Sam again as he loaded the plate up. "Trust me."

Sam ground the heel of his hand against his forehead. There was a sharp drumming in his sinuses.

"Headache?"

"Uh huh."

"Get yourself a cup of coffee. Caffeine'll help with that." As Sam reluctantly got back up, Dean asked, "Craving a cigarette?"

"No," Sam admitted after thinking for a couple seconds. He splashed coffee from the pot into a chipped mug, hesitated, then reached for the sugar packets. "I mean, not specifically? I told you, I never really _liked_ it. Even after I'd been doing it for a while. I just started...needing it."

"That's addiction for ya, Sammy." Dean set the plate in front of him when he returned to the table. There were a lot of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon, and Dean was favoring the side his face was all bashed up on. Sam wasn't sure which made his stomach knot up more. "You want something in your mouth, though, doncha?"

Sam hoped Dean read his blush as part of him being sweaty. "Kinda."

"Then eat." Dean turned back to the stove. He must've seen the little mountain of empty sugar packets over by the coffeemaker, because he snorted and asked, "Get enough coffee in there with your sugar?"

"Shut up, jerk." Sam grabbed his mug and took a sip. The heat of it hit him straight in the teeth, and that wasn't super welcome, but it was nice and sweet and actually settled his stomach some. Felt good on his sore throat, at the very least. "It sounds good."

"Yeah, I know." Dean sank into the chair across from Sam with a quiet grunt, plate in hand. He had as much on it as he usually ate the morning after a tough hunt, and it was still less than he'd given Sam, which was just nuts. There was no way Dean expected him to eat it all. "Bitch."

A thin warmth flickered low in Sam's chest, one that had nothing to do with the coffee or the sweat. He put a strip of bacon in his mouth, carefully. So far, so good. It was greasy, but the salt was nice. Sucking on the end, he mumbled around it: "Where's Dad?"

"Took off again after he dropped me here." Dean's voice was casual as he scooped up a forkful of eggs. The set of his shoulders wasn't. "No idea where he went, so don't ask me. I mean." Sam ate the bacon in his mouth, feeling reasonably good about it not coming back up by now. "We got rid of the ghost, _after_ it threw me through a wall. And a couple windows. So I don't know what the hell he's doing." He watched Sam grab a second piece of bacon, then a third. "That taste good to you?"

Mouth full, Sam nodded, swallowing before he answered. "Uh huh." He reached for the fork Dean had given him with shiny fingers. "It's, um...it's really good. I'm hungry."

"Toldja. Know you don't usually like stuff like this, but your day's gonna be about a million times easier if you eat something real." Dean got up to get himself some coffee, moving stiffly. He took it black. Just like Dad.

Sam cut into his pancakes. They had butter on them, a lot of it, but nothing else. He looked up at Dean.

"No syrup?"

"Nah." Dean sighed. "Not much left in the bottle, and it'd gone all, like...crystal-y." He nodded to Sam's plate. "Flour was super old, too, so keep an eye out for weevils."

Sam's guts shifted. He defiantly shoved a chunk of pancake into his mouth anyway and talked through it. "Jam?"

"Nope. Gonna have to hit the store today." Dean sat down again. "And don't talk with your mouth full. Were you raised in a barn?"

 _Car,_ Sam though, and then just focused on eating. It shaved away at his headache and nausea, and he'd meant what he'd told Dean: he was hungry. Starving, actually, the sharp, gnawing kind of emptiness that crawled all the way up his esophagus and meant a growth spurt was incoming. Thank god the nicotine hadn't stopped that dead in its tracks. Dean had warned him it might. That was one of the things he'd yelled about.

It felt good, too, to have a full mouth. Something between his lips and against his tongue.

Dean watched him as he shoveled in soft eggs and fluffy pancakes and perfectly-crispy bacon. More specifically, Sam realized, he was looking at his fingers on the fork, at the faint yellow stain that lapped between two of them. It was barely even there.

"I knew. Couple weeks before I caught you." Dean cleared his throat. "I could smell it on you."

Sam stopped eating. "Seriously?"

" _Yes,_ seriously - dude, you were smoking menthols." Dean snorted. "Like a girl."

"Well, I tried the, y'know, just the normal ones," Sam defended, "but they made me cough." He went back to his pancakes. His plate was a little less than half empty; he normally would've been full by now. Definitely a growth spurt. "If you knew, how come you didn't say anything?"

"I wanted to catch you in the act," Dean replied, picking up his coffee and taking a loud slurp. "Figured that was the best way to get you to stop. Y'know, like when a dog's pissing on the floor."

Sam scoffed. _"Wow."_ Like they'd ever had to deal with a dog that wasn't housebroken. Or any dog.

"To be honest, I probably would've been less mad if you'd been pissing on the floor." Dean picked up a piece of bacon, examined it before putting it in his mouth. "Listen, Sammy, I...I'm sorry I yelled. I really didn't mean to scare you so bad."

"I just about swallowed my cigarette." Sam grabbed his own coffee. "It's okay. Not like you made me smoke a whole pack or anything."

"Yeah, I wasn't gonna do that." Dean shook his head. "Still, though."

"Hey." Sam offered Dean a smile, tapping his fork against his plate. "You made me breakfast. An _awesome_ breakfast. Which was exactly what I needed, apparently." He ate another bite of eggs before he assured, "We're good."

"Good." Dean looked relieved. "Better hurry up. Gonna be late for school."

Sam cleaned his plate. It wasn't hard, with how fantastic it all tasted and how empty his mouth and stomach felt. He had to fold the elastic waistband of his pajama pants down over his sharp hipbones to finish the pancakes, and his belly was swollen against his thumbs, but he didn't care. It wasn't a bad feeling. He drained his coffee, too, even drinking the super-sweet sludge that'd settled at the bottom.

"'Kay, go get dressed." Dean took his dishes. "I gotta get loosened up, run to the store. So I'll walk you to school."

Sam knew he was only doing it to make sure he didn't sneak a cigarette on the way, but it triggered a warm pulse in his chest anyway. "All right."

He would've liked to shower, but he didn't have time and he wasn't sweating anymore. So he just pulled on a T-shirt, a hoodie, and hand-me-down jeans from Dean. From when Dean was _twelve._ Sam wasn't just tiny, he was skinny, too, a weedy little sapling next to a pair of full-grown pines. It was good for soccer, some positions at least, but not for hunting, and being left out was the only thing he hated more than being dragged along.

Today, though, he had to leave the button on the jeans undone, stomach filled to the brim and sloshing comfortably as he hurried back out of the bedroom to meet Dean.

* * *

It'd been a week since Dean caught Sam smoking.

When it'd happened, once Dean'd finished yelling and flushed Sam's battered Marlboros down the toilet, he'd told Sam he was going to help him quit. And so far, he'd held to that, watching him like a hawk and cheering him on and providing plenty of distractions. And food. Tons of food, because Dean said that was what would wind up helping the most.

He'd bought all of Sam's favorite snacks, including those Hostess fruit pies he thought were so gross. And he was cooking for him, making breakfast and dinner and packing his lunches. Dean was an incredible cook and he knew it, even though he'd brush it off with a tiny smile and a shake of his head whenever Sam told him. There was something so solid, so warm, so s _pecial_ about all of it. Sam felt like he'd been full all week, but he liked that. It kept the cravings and all of the other symptoms way off on the horizon rather than at the front of Sam's mind.

Over the weekend, though, Dad had come home. Sam would've normally been both relieved and disappointed by that, but this time Dad had taken Dean with him on a literal witch hunt when he left again, so there hadn't been any relief in the mix.

Sam had eaten fruit pies for breakfast, and he was starting to think maybe Dean was right and they really were gross. The filling was just so _gooey_ and the crust didn't taste like anything. Nothing like real pie, just like Dean said. He'd eaten six and still been hungry.

Now it was lunchtime, and Sam's stomach hurt. His head was tender with pressure and pounding, there was a weird trembling in his hands, and his mouth felt so big and empty it hurt. He could barely find his tongue. He slipped a finger between his lips and it was shaped enough like a cigarette to help some, but too different to do any real good.

He knew he needed to eat. But the plastic-wrapped grilled cheese and cup of chicken soup sitting on the tray in front of him weren't at all appealing.

The rain that fell apparently all through March in Washington was loud on the sheet of tin that covered Sam's high school's outdoor lunchroom. Most people had elected to eat inside because of it. There weren't even any teachers out here, just Sam all alone at his own table and a few others who paid no attention to him. And the stoners and smokers, of course.

The weed smell mostly just reminded him of Dean, who rarely smoked it and said he didn't like it, but made a point of always keeping some in his duffel anyway. He thought about him, on a hunt several states away. About the witch sneaking a hex bag into the motel room and Dad not finding it until it was too late. About a ceremonial dagger finding its way between a pair of ribs or across a freckled throat. About how it would feel watching Dad get out of the car and walk back to the room alone. Once he'd started, Sam knew he wasn't going to be able to stop all afternoon, into the night. And that made him want a cigarette way more than the tobacco-and-tar scent mixed in with the pot.

Sam put his aching head down on the laminate of the table and groaned softly, folding his arms around his skull. He squeezed with his biceps, which didn't seem to make anything better. His eyes stung and his mouth was a desert.

He straightened up after a second, head heavy on the end of his neck, and went digging through his backpack. His phone was in a side pocket. According to Dad, it was expensive as hell and only for emergencies. Sam thought this qualified. One of the packs of cigarettes that Dean hadn't flushed was in that same pocket.

Sam knew Dean wouldn't answer him. He was way too busy. (He might be dead.) He texted him anyway.

 _I dont think i can do this_

He put the Nokia down and knuckled at both his eyes so hard it felt like they might pop in the sockets. It helped some with his headache, actually. He jumped when the phone buzzed.

 _Check ur knife pocket_

Sam sprinted, then reached for the pocket on the very front of his backpack, one he never opened. There was a butterfly knife in there, and a thing of salt. A mini flask of holy water. A sandwich baggie of iron ingots. All of it, just like the phone, was for emergencies.

Sam's mouth fell open with the pocket, though, because now all the weapons and just-in-cases were buried under as much candy as would fit in there. Suckers, packs of Skittles and gummies, fun-size chocolate bars. He began to dig through it with one hand, grabbing his phone with the other.

 _Thank you!_

 _U like that? ;) sugar helps and so does having sumthing to snack on_

Sam chose a Tootsie Pop, pulling it out by the stick and peeling off the wrapper. Just him putting it in his mouth made something fist-sized and knotted deep inside him unclench. His headache faded with the rush of artificial grape and sweetness.

 _What are you doing right now?_

 _Dads got me on research so im thinkin of u_

Sam sighed around the sucker. Dean sent another text a second later.

 _Dont worry if you use up whats in that pocket ill refill it soon as we get home every day if i need to just so long as u dont start again_

Sam twirled the Tootsie Pop, the ridge on it bumping deliciously across the rippled roof of his mouth.

 _Youll need to refill it_

* * *

It'd been two weeks since Dean caught Sam smoking.

Dean had three broken toes and a cracked metatarsal, so he was on the couch in a walking boot and Dad was off on another hunt with Caleb as his partner. The guilt was low-burning and constant for Sam, over how glad he was to have Dean home with him instead of out chasing after another monster.

Right now, though, Sam wasn't feeling guilty or glad. It was a Saturday, his homework was done, and there was a _Diehard_ marathon on TV. It should've been perfect. But Sam had one of the worst headaches he'd ever felt.

His skull was in a vise. His ears itched, and tendrils of nauseous agony traced their way down his neck and into his head and shoulders. Even blinking hurt, ground glass under his eyelids. He had his face buried in Dean's lap, which he normally never would've even thought about doing, but Dean had told him to. Asked him to lay down. He was carding his fingers slowly through Sam's sweat-matted hair, even, and Sam couldn't enjoy it at all.

"This the worst it's been?" Dean's voice was soft. So were the yells and gunshots coming from the TV, thanks to him bumping the volume down as Sam hurt more and more. Sam just grunted into Dean's denim-covered thigh. "Want some Tylenol?"

"Uh uh." Sam had taken some with the Pop-Tarts he'd had for breakfast and it hadn't done any good.

"Could give you one of my pills," Dean suggested. Sam knew he'd gotten a prescription for hydrocodone along with his boot. "Might still have some oxy in the first aid kit, too. Y'know, from when Dad messed his shoulder up?"

"Uh uh." Sam was small enough even one pill knocked him for a loop, and he was afraid to wind up like that right now. Needy and home alone with Dean and with his head in his lap. He heard Dean sigh above him, sounding fed up.

"You oughta at least try and eat something, then." Two of Dean's fingers slipped into the hollow at the very base of Sam's skull, between the tendons of his neck. "Gettin' close to lunchtime. That might be part of your problem."

"No!" Sam didn't mean for it to come out as bratty as it did, his voice whinier and higher-pitched than it'd been in months. But he didn't want to eat and definitely didn't want to move; his stomach and his head wouldn't let him without consequences. Besides. Between the candy in his backpack, what Dean pushed on him when he was here, and the snacks he got himself, he was pretty sure he'd been eating way too much.

His jeans were tight. He didn't need belts anymore, and it was a daily struggle to get the button and zipper done up over a tummy that felt much softer and less flat than it'd been a few months ago. The waistband cut into him too, making a tiny, squishy shelf over the top on his hips and belly. He'd been trying to tell himself he was just bloated, it was just water weight, but he knew it wasn't. He'd even kept his sleep sweatpants on today because they were more comfortable.

He knew no one could see it, with the baggy shirts and jackets he wore. He also knew it'd all melt away with the growth spurt that had to be coming up. He was ashamed anyway, felt huge and awkward. Especially next to Dean, who was all long muscles and hard bones.

Sam was afraid of him noticing. Not just because it was embarrassing and gross, either. If Dean saw the weight he'd gained, he might stop feeding him so much, and food (especially Dean's cooking) was the only thing that helped with the withdrawal.

Sam needed to eat to feel better, but he couldn't eat because, if he got chubbier, he wouldn't be able to eat as much. It was a catch-22.

Dean blew a loud, resigned breath out through his nose. "Fine." He kept stroking Sam's hair, but he paused a second later. "Dude. Are you sucking on my jeans?"

Sam's mouth, so painfully empty, had been slightly open against Dean's leg. And maybe his tongue had been resting on the seam. But he hadn't been sucking. Still, he jerked away with blazing pink cheeks and another quick "No!" Instantly, a hurricane of fresh pain smashed through his head, and he curled up with a queasy moan.

Dean made an exasperated noise. "Yeah, okay." With a grunt, he swung his booted foot down off the coffee table. "Not gonna play this game with you today." He heaved himself up and clumped into the kitchenette.

Sam hung himself over the back of the couch even though it hurt, watching Dean. He didn't know where he'd go, in the rain and with his foot the way it was, but he was terrified he was going to leave anyway. "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Dean checked the plastic coffee canister very first, then cursed and pitched it into the trash. Sam winced. He'd forgotten to tell him he'd used the last of it this morning.

Dean hobbled over to the fridge and pulled the freezer door open. He plucked out a carton of ice cream and grabbed a spoon out of one of the drawers, then came back. Sam waited, sucking a little on his lower lip. He dropped back down onto the cushions when Dean did, gasping a little at the agony that jolted up his spine. Dean caught it, of course, looking at him as he elevated his foot again.

"Before you get on me for giving you ice cream for lunch, I know it's bad," he began. "I just wanna get some sugar in you, help with the headache. You know how much sugar helps. Caffeine would've been better, but." He peeled the lid off. It was cookie dough, maybe about a third gone, a glittering rind of ice crystals skinning over the top. "I'll make you a sandwich or something once you start feeling better."

Sam frowned. "You sure?" Dean hadn't been cooking for him since he'd gotten back from that last hunt. It hurt too much to stand at the stove or the counter for so long.

"Yeah." Dean shrugged, scraping the ice off the top with the spoon. "You gotta eat."

Sam swallowed a mouthful of saliva when Dean tried to pass the carton and the spoon to him, shaking his head the tiny bit he could. "I'm not hungry. I don't wanna...I'm not gonna eat. I just gotta go lay down."

Dean rolled his eyes. The motion was jerky; he was getting close to the end of his rope. He dug the spoon in and dredged up a large scoop. "Sammy. C'mon." He held it out, right up to Sam's lips. "Just eat. Couple bites." He bounced his eyebrows up. In the room's low light, his irises were a winter lake, a deep and dark green. "For me?"

There was no way Sam could say no to that. His pulse was running fast inside of his skull as he went ahead and opened his mouth, and let Dean put the ice cream inside. He was gentle, watching Sam's lips as they closed around the stem of the spoon, and the ice cream was fantastic. It was stale, freezer-burned, tasted like the inside of the fridge, but it was fantastic anyway.

"Good?" Dean asked once Sam'd swallowed and he'd pulled the spoon free.

"Uh huh." Adrenaline buzzed through Sam like he was taking down a werewolf as he opened his mouth again. He wanted Dean to keep feeding him. He was petrified of what it'd mean, what would happen, if he did. So petrified, in fact, he had to close his eyes and couldn't open them again. The bottom of the spoon, sticky with frost, hit his tongue a second later.

"Reminds me of when you were little," Dean murmured after a couple minutes of him spooning ice cream into Sam's waiting mouth, voice gentle. "Haven't really done this since then."

Sam's headache withered slowly away as he ate. He wasn't sure if it was the sugar or the cold or some sort of placebo effect and he didn't really care. The pain had kept him from realizing he was hungry, and that got better, too, stomach steadily filling with ice cream. Cool, creamy, heavy.

"Feeling better?" Dean asked him after a little bit. Sam nodded, then opened his eyes to see Dean reaching for the carton's lid.

"No." Sam put out a hand, then dropped it before he could grab anything. "I mean, um..." He swallowed. "There's not that much left, and I've still kinda got a headache, so..."

Dean studied him for a second, and Sam reflexively prayed he wouldn't tell him he couldn't eat most of a quart of ice cream all by himself in one sitting. Or, worse, make him eat the rest of it on his own. And somebody must've heard him, because Dean shrugged and scooped up another spoonful of what was left.

"Fine, but if you puke, I ain't cleaning it up."

Sam finished the ice cream. His stomach rounded out and puffed up, and the elastic waistband of his sweatpants started getting tight right below his belly button. it chased off the last of his headache, and he burped softly into his hand when he got up to throw away the empty carton, sparing Dean's foot. He could feel the ice cream sloshing inside him. It was like having a whole ocean in his stomach, and he liked it.

"You gotta have something besides that," Dean called from the couch. "Sandwich okay? Think we got some peanut butter."

"I..." You couldn't eat a sandwich with a spoon. "Actually, Easy Mac sounds really, really god to me. D'we have any of that?"

"Yeah, couple boxes." Dean started to get up.

"Oh, no, I can make it." Sam felt awful because he wanted Dean to do it for him.

"I got it." Dean waved a hand. "Just get back on the couch. Not like it's my leg that's broken; I can walk just fine."

So Dean made Sam Easy Mac. Then he fed it to him without even being asked - the whole box, washed down with a couple Cokes they'd both forgot they had ("For the caffeine"). Sam opened his mouth for every single spoonful, sure this had to be a dream or a hallucination or something, so excited he was nearly humming like a plucked guitar string.

His headache was totally gone. Looked like he really had just needed to eat. A stomachache was starting to replace it, and no wonder with the way his belly was growing and spreading. He was packed too solid to feel like an ocean anymore. But the pasta was delicious, and the spoon felt so comfortable in his mouth, and Dean was smiling at him, a warm, gentle expression Sam wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. So he kept eating, discreetly tugging his sweatpants down under the bloat of his stomach when they got too tight.

He had to move some, shift his weight forwards a little. It was hard to move. He was twitching down in his boxers, and it got more active as he got fuller, which was just...confusing as hell. It'd never happened before and he hoped Dean didn't notice it.

 _Maybe it's because of Dean_ _,_ Sam thought, then hoped Dean didn't notice his blush.

He drained the last of the Coke when the mac and cheese was gone, then groaned, unable to stifle a burp as a cramp fluttered along the side of his stomach. He put a hand on it and tried to rub it out, but he had no idea what he was doing. It was way different from a cramp in his leg or foot, deeper. Dean finally noticed how full he was.

"Jesus." Foot still up on the table, Dean scooted himself closer to where Sam was sitting in the corner of the couch. "You're... _wow_. You are _stuffed_."

"Uh huh." Sam was having to take short little puffs of breath. It reminded him of smoking. When Dean touched his heaving stomach, a couple points of heat burned high up on Sam's cheeks, and blood pounded in his groin.

"Goddammit. Shouldn't've fed you so much." Dean felt Sam's belly like he couldn't believe it was real. He rubbed and squeezed and...oh. That felt good, zinging straight down to Sam's dick. He blushed harder, feeling absolutely filthy, especially as Dean kept on touching. He could feel him looking at him. "Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Dunno." Sam huffed. "Didn't really notice." He'd been full a lot lately. All the time, felt like. But not like this.

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Jesus," he repeated, and got even closer. "Bet it hurts." When Sam nodded, he started rubbing deeper, using the hand he already had on him. Wide, slow, soothing strokes. "That feel good?"

Sam just nodded again, his breath hitching hard, and hoped Dean couldn't tell just how good it felt. His belly and his position hid it some, and it wasn't like he was all that big.

Dean shifted yet again so he was right next to Sam, giving him a better angle. Sam nearly froze when he wrapped his arm around him so he could put his other hand on his stomach, rubbing with both of them. Dean's breath ruffled through his hair. He hadn't showered since yesterday or maybe the day before so he was musky, earthy. Sam knew he shouldn't like it as much as he did.

He had to distract himself, talk or something, so he wouldn't start thrusting or moaning. He was pretty sure he was fully hard now. Sam scrambled to think of something.

"You told Dad I was smoking yet?" He'd read once that tugging on belly button piercings could get people hot because those nerves were connected. This was probably the same thing, Sam rationalized.

Another snort from Dean. "No. And I ain't gonna tell him."

"You think he..." Sam tried to disguise a burst of lid-fluttering pleasure as a natural hesitation. "Knows anyway?"

"Nah." Dean sighed, and it was so hot on Sam's scalp. "Dad's not...well, I mean, _obviously_ he cares, right? But he's not really, y'know...he doesn't pay a whole lot of attention to us. Got a lotta other things to worry about." Sam heard Dean lick his lips. "He doesn't need to know about every stupid mistake me or you make."

Sam nodded. They were quiet for a while, then Dean softly asked, "How you feelin'?"

Sam closed his eyes and risked leaning against Dean, snuggling into his side. His stomach still hurt some even with Dean giving him a belly rub, and he badly needed to jerk off, which was a problem because he knew moving was going to be near-impossible. Still, he meant it when he murmured back, "Awesome."

* * *

It'd been three and a half weeks since Dean caught Sam smoking, and Dean had a date.

Her name was Jamie Green and she worked at a convenience store whose main claim to fame was that you could buy cigarettes there without an ID. Sam was, obviously, familiar with her. He didn't like her.

Dean'd been after her since they'd rolled into town, for reasons that probably had to do with her low-cut tops and less-than-stellar reputation. She liked Zeppelin too, was the word around the high school, and that had to've gotten back to him. She'd had a boyfriend up 'til now. Several, from what Sam'd heard. But the last time Dean had gone down to her store to buy Sam a fresh stash of candy, she'd apparently told him she'd kicked the main one to the curb and asked him out. So, Dean had a date.

Dean'd gone on a lot of dates. Hundreds, probably, that Sam could remember. A handful in this town alone. Every time, every night, Sam's stomach had felt weird all the way up to and through the date, something different from the fear and stress that found him when Dean was on a hunt gnawing away deep in his guts. Today, though, he'd been right on the edge of throwing up ever since Dean had told him. Chills, tingling, mouth full of drool, the works. He hadn't been able to eat anything but ice chips all day, and Dean was concerned, but not enough to stay home. It was probably just the nicotine withdrawal coming back with a vengeance. Sam was close to the finish line now, only a few days away.

Jamie went out the day after she broke up with her boyfriend, had been fired from two other gas stations for stealing beer, and sold menthol cigarettes to fifteen-year-olds with a wink and a giggle. Dean could gut a gulon in one swipe, had a shiny scar in the middle of his back from where a poltergeist had hurled a cup of boiling water at a little girl and he'd shielded her, and could cook an omelette without giving up halfway through and making scrambled eggs instead. It was simple math: Dean deserved way better than Jamie.

 _Am I better?_ It popped into Sam's head again and again all day, sending him blushing and rushing to the bathroom every time, even though nothing ever came up. It hurt something small and tender inside him, something he couldn't bear to take out and look at or even acknowledge, most of the time. He didn't think he was better. And even if he was, it didn't matter.

Sam knew for sure he wasn't any better than Jamie when Dean got in the shower that night, because he forced himself up off the couch and went to his backpack. It was sitting by the door. Of course he hadn't gone to school today. He unzipped the cell phone pocket and pulled out the Marlboros and the lighter, then went outside.

It was raining. It was always raining. Sam stood under the awning right outside the room's door and fingered the fuzzy cardboard of the cigarette pack, worn soft from being inside his backpack for months. He could smell the menthol. It settled his stomach.

He'd only smoked while Dean was home once, the time he caught him. Otherwise, he'd done it exclusively while Dean and Dad were both gone, hunting. It'd been a while. Sam's fingers felt thick and clumsy as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack, trembling some, even, and put it in his mouth. It felt good there but the taste, even unlit, was terrible, especially because it was stale.

Sam hesitated, in the rain, cigarette on his tongue. He knew this was wrong, for him and Dean both. He'd screwed up a lot, which Dad told him frequently, but this was so different.

He lit up anyway. The tobacco and the menthol burned and cooled his lungs, and the awful flavor was like a punch to the stomach. He gagged a few times, and it didn't even calm him down like it'd used to. Eyes watering, Sam smoked it down to the filter, then crushed it under his beat-up sneaker on the damp pavement.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, then started coughing. He stayed outside, breathing the humid air, until he could stop, then went back into the room.

He wasn't sick anymore, so the fact he hadn't eaten all day was hitting him hard, knees a little wobbly as he passed through the living room and the bedroom. Dean was still in the bathroom but out of the shower, door open to let the steam out. He was barefoot and bare-chested, nothing on him but a pair of jeans that sat low on his hips and tape on his toes, and Sam sucked in a breath. Dean was...well, nowhere near as soft as Sam was starting to get in the chest and especially the stomach. He was winter-pale (rain-pale), his hair dark from lack of sun, but that was fine.

Dean was leaning over the counter, staring at the mirror and combing gel into his damp hair with his fingers, but he looked at Sam when he spoke.

"De." Sam hadn't called him that in years, too self-conscious. His mouth tasted like cough drops and campfire ash. "I..." He took a step forward, saw Dean's freckled nose literally twitch, and knew he'd smelled it. "I smoked a cigarette." There it was, the last chance not to do this. Gone. "And I w-want another one."

Dean didn't get mad, like Sam'd expected him to and like he had when he'd first caught him. Instead, a heavy sigh gusted out of him and he planted a hip on the edge of the counter, folding his arms over his chest. He looked at Sam. And he looked like Dad. Tired and disappointed, thirty years older than he actually was. It was so much worse than being yelled at. The backs of Sam's eyes burned. "I'm sorry."

"It's..." Dean trailed off. "Well, it's not _okay_ , but..." He shook his head, then dragged a hand through his hair, completely screwing up his gel job. "Everybody relapses, Sammy. Shit." He brushed past Sam, limping into the bedroom and grabbing his duffel. Sam's heart sank as he watched him pull on a shirt.

"D'you want my pack?" Sam ventured. It was a few seconds before Dean answered.

"I don't know." He rubbed his face. "You were so _close_. A month, then the withdrawals start dropping off." He looked at Sam, and he was himself again instead of Dad, but still disappointed. "Did you buy new ones?"

"They were...they were in my backpack." Dean would never search it, would never do anything beyond putting candy in his frontmost pocket, because it was Sam's. The only thing that really was.

"Course." Dean turned around and looked at Sam, obviously thinking. He breathed in slowly. "Bet you're feeling better now, at least." Sam nodded. "Okay. Get some real clothes on. I gotta go...call Jamie."

He left the room, leaving Sam alone in the T-shirt and sweatpants he'd slept in last night. Sam wanted to just stand there and go over what'd happened, what it meant, but he couldn't keep Dean waiting. He stripped and grabbed the bag he kept his clothes in, able to feel the recently-developed jiggle and bounce of his middle all the more clearly since he was empty. He swiped on deodorant, pulled a hoodie big enough to hide the round shape of his stomach over his head. He grabbed a pair of jeans, then hesitated. It wasn't like they were stretched out or anything. They were a little worn and faded, the denim breaking down near the knees, but they were still wearable. It was just that Sam hadn't been able to do up the button in about a week, even if he sucked it in, and the zipper wasn't far behind. It was like that with all his jeans.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean's duffel. He dug into it after dropping his own jeans, pulling out a pair of his older brother's. He could hear Dean talking in the living room, to Jamie probably. It didn't sound like he was arguing or apologizing. Sam didn't know how much time he had, so he quickly yanked the jeans on.

They were too long, of course. The extra fabric puddled around his ankles. Otherwise, though, they fit, even when he zipped and buttoned them. They hugged his ass and hips. He'd practically forgotten what it felt like to wear clothes that didn't dig into his softest parts. He used one of Dean's belts, too, then kicked his shoes back on right before Dean returned.

"You ready? Good." He looked mildly pissed off, but Sam didn't think it was because of him. "You're not smoking anymore tonight. We're getting dinner."

"What about Jamie?" Sam risked. Dean sat down on one of the beds to put on his shoes. He really should've still been wearing the boot, but he'd gotten sick of it.

"Not going," Dean answered shortly. "C'mon."

Dad was still on the latest hunt, promising to be home soon for the past three days, and Caleb had come and picked him up, so they had the car for once. Sam knew Dean loved it, could see a secret smile cut through the storm on his face when he slid in behind the wheel and looked out across the rain-glazed hood. They didn't talk as Dean drove them to the town's all-you-can-eat buffet. Sam wouldn't have known it was possible to feel so good and so bad at the same time if he hadn't had so much experience with it.

"I'll get our plates," Sam said quietly after they'd paid and snagged a booth. "You oughta stay off your foot."

" _You_ look like you're about to pass out over there, Sammy," Dean replied. "I popped two Vicodin before I got in the shower. I'm golden."

Dean seemed to know exactly what Sam was craving. He brought him fried chicken, mashed potatoes, meat loaf, brisket. He got more or less the same thing for himself. Sam inhaled two loaded plates before the feeling of being full started to catch up with him, and knew matter-of-factly he wasn't going to stop eating until he was at least as full as he'd been last Saturday. It hadn't happened since then. He hadn't let it happen. Tonight, though, he hadn't eaten all day, he couldn't bear for his mouth and stomach to be empty for a second longer, and he didn't want to think about what he'd done.

Dean heaved a sigh when Sam was halfway through his third plate. Sam looked up from the pulled pork to see him shaking his head.

"I just...don't get it, man," he said. It sounded like an admission. "You're smart. You _know_ how bad cigarettes are for you even if you don't, y'know, do what we do, and you know it ain't worth doing something like that just to fit in. So..." He leaned back against the molded vinyl of the booth and tossed up a helpless hand. "Why the hell'd you even start?"

Sam swallowed what was in his mouth. The taste from earlier was gone unless he swiped his tongue up around the eaves of his gums. Dean was a hero, all-American, a fucking stud. Whatever he didn't have figured out, he just didn't think about. Sam could've told him about how tiny he felt all the time, but especially in the empty, empty room when he and Dad were hunting without him. About how the dark was the kind of dark cheap incandescent bulbs couldn't touch, when Dean was gone. About how Sam had often been able to feel his bones creaking and collapsing under the weight of not being there if something went wrong. But he didn't think Dean would understand. He wouldn't even get how any of that was related to why Sam'd started smoking.

"Iono," Sam mumbled, reaching for a dinner roll. "Why'd you start?"

"'Cause I was fucking stupid." Dean was matter-of-fact about it. "I was sixteen and I thought I was cool. Thought I'd be cooler if I smoked. Everybody did, at the school we were at back then. You remember?"

Sam did. It was a six-to-twelve, so they'd been in the same building. "Why'd you quit?"

Dean let Sam finish his current plate and got him another one before he answered. "Dad caught me."

"And what'd he do?" Hushpuppies and french fries this time. Sam loved fries.

"Oh, well, he beat the shit outta me, first of all." It was that same casual, "this-is-the-way-things-are" tone. Sam stopped eating and Dean must've seen that, because he backtracked. "Sorry. Shouldn't've said that. I only had a couple bruises, but he did knock me around. 'Cause he knew I was stupid and I needed to be taught a lesson. Can't be ruining your lungs when you're running for your life all the time." Dean sipped his drink. "Then he made me smoke what I had left then and there. Which sucked. It was only one pack, but it was brand new." He shrugged. "I threw up twice. Never smoked again, though. Can't hardly smell tobacco without gagging."

Sam was silent, remembering Dean telling him he could smell the cigarettes on him as he undid his belt. It didn't give his full stomach much room.

"How come you didn't do any of that with me?" he asked quietly.

"'Cause I knew you didn't need it." Dean burped. He'd kept up with Sam, plate-wise. But he was also a lot bigger. "You're doing great." He paused. "You _were_ doing great. You're gonna do great. Clock's reset, it's fine, tonight's gonna be your last cigarette."

Sam could hear the firmness in Dean's voice, feel how strongly he believed in him. It was heavy, as heavy as Dean's absence, but this weight was good. Sam was full, fuller than he probably should be. He didn't need to eat anymore and risk popping the button on Dean's jeans. He nodded as he pushed his plate, a handful of hushpuppies and fries still on it, away from himself.

"Hey, you still got some left there." Dean reached for Sam's plate. "C'mon. Couple more bites before dessert. You know better than to waste food."

He picked up a fry and held it to Sam's lips. Like when he'd fed him the ice cream a week and a half ago. There was no spoon this time, though. Just squared-off nails and calluses and crushed knuckles.

Sam opened his mouth automatically and let Dean put the fry in, then a hushpuppy, then another fry. Dean's fingertips brushed against his lips and tongue and they tasted like salt and grease and hair gel.

Sam looked at Dean as he fed him. The slight smile on his full pink mouth, the scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose. His hair was a bunch of weird little backwards-swept furrows and spikes from when he'd run his fingers through it while it was still wet. Sam could see tiny twin reflections of himself in Dean's pupils, dark hair flopping into his eyes, mole next to his nose. And was it just his imagination, or was his face a little rounder? His jaw and cheekbones a little softer?

"There you go." Dean put their empty plates on the edge of the table and moved to get up. "Gonna go hit the dessert table. One of everything?" He winked at Sam.

"Um," Sam started. "I read. I read that a lotta people gain weight when they quit smoking?"

Dean stood there and studied him, and Sam felt huge. His wide hips and thighs, the curves of his butt, his round tummy, rounder now with comfort food. He was sure he could feel Dean's eyes on that last one like a physical touch. Dean shrugged eventually.

"You look fine to me. And you haven't eaten anything all day so, y'know." Dean cocked his head to the side, hands on his hips. "D'you think you've been gaining weight?"

"No." The lie was sweet and easy in Sam's mouth. Like ice cream.

Dean wound up bringing Sam two plates of dessert, the first one just a sampler and the second more of everything Sam'd liked. Neither of them were full, quite, but it was still a lot of food.

Dean fed him most of it. Brownies, cookies, fudge, chocolate-covered strawberries and marshmallows, apparently having decided he liked watching Sam eat straight out of his hand. There was that same warm and gentle look and feel to him that'd been there on that Saturday. He'd looked that way a lot when they were really little, Sam remembered now. When he'd been young enough that it'd been okay for him to need his brother so much.

Sam certainly wasn't complaining. He had to unbutton and unzip his borrowed jeans, and his stomach rested hot against his thighs. He stopped burping eventually. There just wasn't enough space inside of him for any air. It never hurt, though, and it all tasted good. He couldn't say no when Dean was feeding him. He seemed to get deeper inside his mouth every time.

"I'm sorry about your date," Sam told Dean when he got a little bit of a break because Dean was finishing his own dessert. A whole plate of pie, of course.

Dean shrugged, nonchalant. "'S okay. Not really a date; we were just gonna drink and fuck. I was her rebound dick, and that's fine, but I couldn't've been the only one she had lined up. She wasn't upset about me canceling and she didn't wanna reschedule."

 _She's a slut_ , Sam wanted to say, but didn't, because Dean had slept with at least as many girls as Jamie had guys, probably.

"I'd rather be here with you," Dean said around a forkful of cherry pie, smiling with a full mouth. "Better use of my time, even if there ain't any beer."

Dean had to help Sam out of the booth when they were finished, and did it without being asked. Just saw him shifting himself slowly along, grunting and huffing, and grabbed him gently under the armpits. Sam was spilling out of the jeans, the front pocket of his hoodie stretched flat against his belly, and he waddled as he went back out to the car with Dean.

"You doin' okay?" Dean asked him as he eased himself into the passenger seat. Sam nodded, even though he was breathing shallowly. The worn leather seemed to cradle his plump body. It was drizzling, just barely, and Sam wrinkled his nose when he saw Dean's fingers shine in the light coming from the restaurant.

"You couldn't've wiped your hands off before we left?"

"What?" Dean made a show of examining his fingers. "It's just grease. And sugar, looks like. And chocolate."

"It's gross." Sam realized he was absentmindedly rubbing the bulge of his own stomach with one hand, but didn't stop. "Are you really gonna touch the steering wheel like that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Without warning, Dean shoved one of his hands into Sam's face. Sam could see the white shine off his teeth as he grinned. "Does this gross you out?"

"Dude!" Sam started to laugh, which made him hiccup, which made Dean start to laugh, just so bright and happy. He didn't move his hand away. It smelled like everything he'd put in his mouth tonight, which shouldn't've been appetizing at all, especially with how full Sam was. But it was good, somehow. Dean's thumb was really close to Sam's lips. He wasn't sure why his tongue darted out and flicked timid against the rough-rilled joint, but it did.

Dean's laughter faded slowly away, and his hand came closer to Sam. Sam opened his mouth, and Dean's thumb slipped soft into it like the most natural thing in the world. Sam's eyes fluttered closed. There were calluses on his tongue, ragged cuticles against the inside of his cheek. There was a ridge in the middle of Dean's wide, flat thumbnail, where he'd broken it a couple years ago and screwed up the bed. And it tasted so good. Fruit and chocolate and salt and sweat and _Dean_. He suckled gently at it, teeth tucked up in the soft parts of his lips, while the rest of Dean's hand cupped his jaw. Grains of sugar scratched his cheek, still baby-soft.

With Dean's thumb in his mouth, Sam's heartbeat thrummed in his overfed stomach and his cock fattened between his thighs. He put both hands over his groin as casually as he could, arms curved around the shape of his belly like he was holding it.

Dean pulled his thumb free after a while. Drool slopped onto Sam's lower lip. He tipped his face up instinctively, like a rooting baby, and met Dean's pointer finger as it practically fell into his mouth. Dean made a low sound as Sam struggled to suck and not gag, the tip of Dean's finger laying on the back of his tongue.

Even still, it felt like it belonged here, in his mouth. Parting his lips, filling him up. Like Sam'd been waiting for this his whole life.

Neither of them spoke until Sam finished sucking the flavor off Dean's middle finger. Dean murmured "What're you doing?" as he pulled it free, like he hadn't been the one to start putting his fingers in Sam's mouth in the first place.

"Cleaning you up," Sam replied. He was panting, hot under his hoodie, and his mouth felt swollen and strange. "Since you can't do it yourself."

In answer, Dean let Sam lap at his ring finger, then put it inside him, their mother's wedding ring clicking against his teeth.

Sam cleaned off every single one of Dean's fingers, slow and wet. Night had fallen while they were in the restaurant and the two of them were cocooned in the dark. Sam could see Dean watching the way his lips and throat were moving whenever he opened his eyes, barely any light reflected by his irises, just thin shards of emerald trained on Sam. He was making noises, so soft Sam could barely hear them. When Sam finished with one hand, Dean dropped it, wet fingers and all, into his own lap and gave him the other.

Sam was so hard it hurt, a sweet ache against the heels of his hands. He ground them in as he sucked on Dean's fingers, squeezing his belly unintentionally with his arms, and he couldn't keep his hips from rolling. It wasn't at all how he usually jerked off, but pleasure zinged through him anyway, steadily building with each finger. He fought to keep his own noises in.

He came with Dean's pinky in his mouth. It was electric, over quicker than any orgasm he'd had before but also much, much more intense. Sam almost bit down and was glad he was able to stop himself.

Warm wetness spread against his hands and he sagged into the seat, too tired and full and content to care that he might've just ruined Dean's jeans. He was still sucking on the finger in his mouth even though it didn't taste like anything anymore, the gesture familiar and comforting, like nursing. Dean didn't pull it free until it was starting to wrinkle, spongy and rough against Sam's numb tastebuds.

Sam was expecting him to say something, but he didn't. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him. Not on the forehead, like he'd used to do ages ago when he tucked him into bed, or even on the nose or cheek. It was full on the lips. Dean didn't seem to mind all the spit.

His mouth stayed closed. Sam's heart was a panicked hummingbird trapped in his chest. He was so aware of the differences in their bodies, because he was so small and soft, short and curved in all the wrong places. Dean was made up wholly of gemstone-sharp angles and long, clean lines, and scars that were hard and smooth under Sam's fingers when he got to touch them. Sam hadn't been hurt nearly so often. He wanted to know how much of what Dean had taken over the years should've fallen on him.

Dean pulled away eventually. Sam couldn't help being disappointed. But as he drove them back to the motel, Dean reached over and put a hand on Sam's belly, rubbing gently the whole way.

* * *

It'd been eight weeks since Dean caught Sam smoking.

During that time, they'd moved down to Arizona, despite there not being all that long left in the school year. Another case Sam didn't get to help with, one Dad wanted them close for because it was going to take a while. Sam missed the rain.

The drive was long and boring. Cigarettes were a tempting distraction, behind convenience stores and in the bathrooms at rest stops, and Dean seemed to get that. He practically buried Sam in snacks and candy in the back seat. Sam spent the whole trip with Dean's jeans, which he was wearing exclusively by then, unzipped and unbuttoned, his belly all but resting in his lap.

Dad was gone again, meeting some other hunters a state over. It was just an information swap, not a case, so of course he hadn't brought Dean with him. Dean wasn't exactly happy about that, but they were celebrating tonight anyway. Sam was fresh out of school, two weeks past his sixteenth birthday, and with his last cigarette a little over a month behind him. Dean was proud of him, which filled Sam with a special, deep warmth.

Dean had made dinner, gone all-out with a baked chicken entree and a slew of sides, and he'd made a cake, too. It'd been ugly, kind of fallen down on one side and covered in lumpy icing, but it'd tasted great. Most of it had wound up inside of Sam, which he was sure had been Dean's intention.

Sam felt enormous, laying on one of the room's beds and watching TV while Dean cleaned up the kitchenette. He knew he'd gained more weight and was starting to suspect the growth spurt was never coming. He had fully-developed love handles on his hips, and budding boy-tits on his chest. He wouldn't be able to fit in Dean's jeans much longer; he was getting too wide. He already had an obvious muffin top when he wore them. He probably would've cared a lot more about all of it if it hadn't seemed to him that Dean liked it.

"How you feelin', baby boy?" Apparently done, Dean came over, leaning down to brush his lips across Sam's cake-filled gut, hanging unashamedly out of his shirt and pants and resting on the mattress. There hadn't been a girl since Jamie back in Oregon

"Awesome," Sam replied with a lazy smile. Being alone with Dean was the best birthday present he could've asked for, and it seemed to be happening more and more lately. He stifled a burp. "Huge."

"Yeah, I can see that." The mattress dipped as Dean took a seat next to Sam, hand on his stomach, petting it like it was a massive cat curled up between them. "Any nicotine cravings?"

Sam snorted. This round of withdrawal had been much easier than the first. "No." He figured being as chubby as he'd gotten had to be at least as bad for hunting and maybe his health as smoking, but he wouldn't say anything if Dean didn't.

"You sure?" When Sam looked up at Dean, he saw he was raising an eyebrow. "Might take longer than a month for all the symptoms to go away, and then you've got the mental cravings..."

"No, I'm fine. I feel great." Sam lifted his head, pushed himself up on an elbow, nervous all of a sudden. "I'd." He swallowed. "I still want something in my mouth, though."

He'd been thinking about this for a few days now and still wasn't sure, but it he didn't do it tonight, he was afraid he'd talk himself out of it. He was afraid of how Dean'd react, too. They'd been kissing since that night outside the buffet, and touching, and every contact, no matter how casual, practically brought Sam back to life. But this was a whole different animal than kissing. It was so much more, and Sam wanted it, but he was also terrified of losing what they had.

Sam put a hand on Dean's thigh, feeling the muscle under the jeans they'd both worn. The two of them were so different it practically blew his mind, sometimes. But he liked it.

He squeezed, and Dean put a hand in his hair as he sat up, grunting at the effort it took. Fingernails ran lightly down the back of his scalp, and his breath shook in his airways. He scooted to the edge of the bed, not getting down on his knees just yet but reaching for Dean's belt. His hands shook like they had the first few days after he'd quit. It made undoing the buckle tough. Dean let him get all the way through that, and Sam was sure he could see the shape of him rising under the denim, and now his hands were shaking with excitement instead of anxiety. Then Dean grabbed his wrists.

It felt like the bottom had dropped out of Sam's stomach, leaving him empty even though he could still feel the warmth and weight of it against his thighs. Panicky, he looked up at Dean through the waves of dark hair that'd fallen over his eyes. Dean didn't look mad, but he was a good actor. Had to be.

"I," Sam began. His voice cracked horrendously, and he winced. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It's just that y-you helped me quit, and you've been taking such good care of me, and...you're a great big brother, Dean, really." He started worrying the lining of his cheek raw with his molars. "I w-wanted to make you feel good."

"Okay." Dean's voice was calm and reassuring. His grip on Sam's wrists was gentle. "C'mere, then." He toed off his boots and swung his legs up onto the bed. He scooted back, rumpling the scratchy blanket serving as a cover, and piled the flat pillows behind him. Sam had no idea what he was doing until he flopped back against them, putting the unmistakable bulge between his legs on full display, and popped his button with a flourish of his thumb. Then the excitement came back.

"Ohmigod," Sam blurted out when Dean pulled himself out, jeans unzipped and boxers pulled down. It was just so _big_ , and he wasn't even sure Dean was fully hard, because it seemed to keep growing in his hand. "Is that..." Sam felt stupid even asking, but it came out anyway. "Are they all that size?"

Dean chuckled, throaty. "Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I'm above average, according to literally everybody I've ever screwed." He grinned, then somehow turned serious all of a sudden. "It's okay if you change your mind. But if you still wanna do this, you don't take it all at once. Don't even put it in your throat. 'Cause you'll choke, and then you'll puke, and neither of us wants that." There was precome coming out of his slit, oozing, bubbles popping up in it, and he smeared it over his flushed head with his thumb like he wasn't even thinking about it. "Your mouth'll be more than enough for me. Honest. It's..." His lips quirked wryly. "Been a while."

Sam had snapped to attention the second he saw Dean hard for the first time in his life, but hearing that had it to where he could feel his heartbeat in his cock. He reached under his belly to palm it, staring at the thick, veiny erection only a couple feet away from him. Wasn't twice as big as him, definitely not, but...still lots bigger.

"Okay," he whispered, mouth dry. Of course, when he least wanted it to be.

"C'mere," Dean said again, gentle, and beckoned Sam with his free hand. Sam got up onto all fours, and his stomach swayed under him as he crawled between Dean's spread legs. His eyes were fixed on his brother's dick, on everything down there, on the slice of ballsack he could see where it was still snuggled inside his boxers. On the freckles, on the wispy happy trail starting right under the smooth divot of his belly button, on the dark, wiry curls it became halfway down. Dean's bush was matted from being in his pants all day, but shiny. Had he been conditioning it?

Dean tilted his cock towards Sam once he got close enough. Precome was still leaking out of him, welling up bead by bead, and Sam chose to believe that was proof of how horny Dean was at the thought of being sucked off by him. A vein was pulsing fast on the side. Sam bent down, unsure, tongue hesitantly slipping out of his mouth, and gave Dean's swollen head a tiny lap. The precome was bitter, but not as bad as he'd been afraid it might be.

Sam put his mouth on the very tip of Dean's length, and Dean groaned in satisfaction. He twitched under Sam and took his hand off himself to bury his fingers in Sams' hair. With Dean's hand on the back of his head, Sam was worried for a second he'd push him down, but of course he didn't. Sam stayed where he was, sucking gently like he had on his fingers over a month ago. The flavor of pre filled his mouth and he decided he liked it. He flicked his tongue into Dean's slit to lap it up as it came out. Dean groaned again, deeper, so Sam figured he liked it.

He must've kept his mouth on his tip a little too long, though, because after a while, Dean murmured, "What're you doing?" He sounded amused.

Sam's eyelids had dropped closed, but now they snapped up again and heat cropped up on his rounded cheeks. He took his mouth off Dean and looked up at him, at his smirk, his lust-hazed eyes. "S-sorry. I've never done this before."

"Yeah, I figured." Dean stroked his hair fondly. Sam leaned into the touch. "Sorry. You can do whatever you want, y'know, whatever you're comfortable with. You wanna just suck on my tip 'til I come, you can do that." He winked, and his voice was deeper when he spoke again, and precome blurted out of him. "I know you're gonna swallow. Haven't spit out anything you've put in your mouth in months, huh?"

Sam blushed even harder, and his dick jumped. He was aware of the extra flesh wreathing him with a crystal-like clarity, and how full he was. He went back to Dean's iron-hard rod, and this time, he didn't just suck on the tip.

Dean's head dropped back onto his pillows when Sam started licking him. Big, wet, confident strokes of his tongue, bathing the head, wrapping around the shaft. Sam found every vein, every bulge. All the way down to the base, where he planted a kiss on the exposed part of Dean's balls, nose digging into his root. Then he did a long, slow lick all the way back up to the head, running his tongue up the underside. That wrung a delicious jerk out of Dean's hips.

Sam still wasn't really sure what he was doing, but it was pretty easy to tell when Dean liked something. At the top, Sam took Dean's strawberry head into his mouth. He was slick with precome, more clearly bubbling out of him while Sam'd been licking. Sam was curious how much he could fit, but he didn't make it all that far before Dean hit the back of his tongue and his throat started flexing. Maybe three inches. Not quite half. But it was a start.

"Put me in your cheek." Dean's voice was a growl and his hand was tight in Sam's hair. "Corner of your jaw, so I got something to thrust against besides your tonsils." He groaned. "And watch your teeth."

Sam had been watching his teeth, but now he had to worry about his molars, too. He resituated Dean's cock, having to open his mouth wider, and drool ran down his brother's length. It kept hitting him like cymbals crashing in his head, that he was sucking off his big brother.

He put his right hand on Dean, holding his girth with fingers the last of the nicotine stain had finally faded from. He began to suck, teeth far away from him, working on his dick with his mouth the same way he had his fingers. He started jerking him off at the same time. Dean moaned above him and, like he'd said, started up a gentle, rolling thrust. His tip nudged against the firm spot where Sam's cheek met the hinge of his jaw.

Sam's mouth was already starting to get tired. He didn't care. He reached down with his other hand, arm bending automatically around his heavy, swollen stomach like he was cradling it, and pulled his own hard, leaking member out of his underwear. He grabbed it, started moving up and down, his head bumping over and over against his soft underbelly.

Dean came, hot and salty, after only a minute or so. Sam had expected it to be as bitter as the precome, but there was a sweet note, almost like apples. And there wasn't as much as he'd thought there'd be. Two main splurts and a hard couple of thrusts filled his mouth, but didn't flood it. Sam easily swallowed it all.

Dean's warm seed splashing into his already-stuffed belly was what pushed Sam himself over the edge. He climaxed on his stomach and the blanket underneath him and it was a good one, balls clenching and hole fluttering behind them, eyes rolling back. Dean nearly ripped a handful of Sam's hair out of his scalp, yelling wordlessly, with how hard he grabbed, but even that felt good.

Dean stiffly pried his fingers out of Sam's hair as he softened in his mouth. Sam let the cock fall free of him, on top of Dean's rucked-down boxers, and straightened up. He licked his lips and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, feeling fuzzy and tired and shaky with relief that almost didn't seem real. He'd just given his first blowjob. To his brother. And he thought he'd done a decent job. Was he still a virgin? Definitely not in his mouth.

Sam had been staring down at Dean's dick, big even when he was flaccid, but after a second he raised his eyes to his face. Dean had a blissful expression, pupils huge and glassy, and he grinned at Sam when he noticed him looking.

"Now," he said softly. "Tell me that didn't taste better than a cigarette."

* * *

It'd been six months since Dean caught Sam smoking, and Sam was kissing two hundred and fifty pounds.

It wasn't all fat, despite Dad raking him over the coals for how big he was getting whenever he was home, which wasn't often. The growth spurt he'd predicted all the way back in March had finally hit and he'd shot up a full six inches with no sign of it stopping anytime soon. His legs hurt so bad at night he couldn't sleep, and he was constantly hungry. When Dean wasn't hunting, though, he was there with heating pads and Tylenol and meals that were usually home-cooked.

Sam had put on muscle under his chub, rounding out his biceps and putting a solid core behind his not-insignificant potbelly. The height and the breakneck metabolism had slimmed him down some. A lot, actually. With the way Dean seemed to like feeding him, though, Sam doubted the slimming down would last long.

It was mid-November now and Dad had been gone two weeks. He hadn't offered any explanation as to why he wasn't taking Dean with him. Or Sam, but Sam had school, and even if he didn't, he doubted Dad would've wanted him along anyway. He was dreading him coming back. The best parts of his life happened when their father was gone.

They were in North Dakota, having swung wide of Sioux Falls on the way up, staying at a motel that catered mostly to oil field workers. The beds were nice, at least. Didn't creak no matter what. The mattress was soft under Sam's considerable bulk where he was laying comfortably against Dean, sweat and come drying slowly between their bare skin, Dean's fingers resting casually in his mouth. Sam was sixteen, knew he shouldn't be sucking on things anymore, but the cigarettes seemed to have woken up a need in him he still hadn't been able to get rid of.

"Thanksgiving's coming up, y'know." Dean's voice was husky.

"Yeah?" Sam mumbled around Dean's fingers. They were going prune-y, but if Dean didn't care, neither did he. "You got somethin' planned?"

"Don't know I'll be home." Dean shrugged against the pillows. "But if I am, yeah. You're gonna love it." He pulled his fingers out of Sam's mouth and winked when he looked up at him, patting his well-fed stomach with a spit-slicked hand. "Could use your input. What d'you think about...smoked turkey?"

Sam snorted, nuzzling into the warm curve of Dean's neck and shoulder, breathing in the hot, animal scent of him right after sex.

"Tease me all you want," he mumbled against his brother's freckles. "We both know taking up smoking's the best thing I ever did."


End file.
